


Unorthodox Holiday Tunes

by Meilan_Firaga



Series: 25 Days of Christmas Fics - 2016 [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8761396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: Still reticent to get back in touch with the Stark clan, Sansa plans to spend Christmas alone at the small university she's transferred to from King's Landing. At least, as alone as she can be when she spends her hours of insomnia chatting with a crude late night radio host. Rated Mature for Sandor's filthy mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of my 2016 attempt at 25 Days of Christmas Fics.
> 
> Prompt 5: Music/Carols

No power on earth could convince Sansa that any holiday was better than Christmas. There were songs and baking and love and  _ presents _ and absolutely no reason to lack for cheer. Even knowing that she would be spending the holiday alone in her tiny flat while most of White Harbor College was home on break didn’t diminish her enthusiasm. The world outside her windows had turned into a winter wonderland, and no matter how starved for real company she might be there was something standing between her and complete isolation.

“Alright, you sorry sacks of shit,” a voice growled from her computer speakers. “Tomorrow morning the mass exodus of students from the grounds takes place and that holiday season shit begins for real.” Sansa smiled and rolled her eyes, her hands working automatically at the knitting project in her lap, needles clacking together. She’d figured that the Hound--her favorite late night online radio host--wouldn’t be particularly festive. She had stumbled on his show quite accidentally when the insomnia started back at the beginning of the fall semester. The show ran from one a.m. to four a.m. every night, and Sansa was almost always listening despite the raunchy language. It had started as a refreshing bit of rebellion--not having to be “Perfect” Sansa Stark in the dead of night when no one could see her enjoying such filth--but it hadn’t taken long before it turned into something entirely different. She’d sent the Hound an e-mail once several months previously, and he’d actually responded to her not only with encouragement but live on the air. A grand tale of e-mails and baked goods left at the station had ensued, and now Sansa could honestly say they were friends despite the fact that they’d never met.

“Now, you jack-offs might be expecting that I’m anti-Christmas being that I’m anti pretty much anti everything else. Truth is, though, that I’ve always found stuff to be entertained by at this time of year. Like the metric fuck ton of great covers to traditional carols. To show you what I mean, here’s metal’s favorite grandpa--the late and great Christopher Lee--with a cover of The Little Drummer Boy.” Sansa laughed lightly as the song began with an immediate cacophony of fast guitars and drums. Of course he would have a collection of carols that had been genre-swapped. 

The first verse hadn’t even ended when her e-mail program chimed with a new direct message. Regular as clockwork. Setting her knitting aside, Sansa rolled her chair up to the desk and opened the conversation.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** You up and listening, little bird?

He always opened their conversations with that, no matter how many times she answered it the same way. She hadn’t missed one of his shows in months, but she had to admit that it was a little endearing how he always checked to see if she was there just moments after he started.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** I’m always up and listening. :)

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Shouldn’t stay up all night listening to mean old fucks on the radio. It’ll rot your brain.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** I guess it’s a good thing I listen on a computer, then. No brain rotting without those old fashioned radio waves I’ve heard people still use.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Smartass. BRB.

Shaking her head, she tugged the knitting project back into her lap. She listened as he came back on the speakers and launched into a rant about those campus residents who were less than capable when it came to driving in the snow. As she finished the row she was working on she lifted the project to eye level. Just below the needles, a snarling dog’s head of black and shades of grey stood out in contrast to its mustard yellow background. It was turning out better than she’d anticipated. The project was, if she were being honest, a rather underhanded endeavor. It was a gift for the man behind the microphone, and one she was hoping he would wear.

She knew very little about her one friend in White Harbor. She knew that his name was actually Sandor, though he refused to give her his surname despite knowing hers. She knew that he liked dogs--as if his radio name didn’t give that away. She knew from his many complaints what colors were involved in his ancestral heraldry. Apparently he hated both being ‘made to look like a bumblebee’ and ‘being confused for a Potter nerd from that fucking badger house.’ Sansa had asked him for coffee on more than one occasion, but he always seemed to find an excuse. She’d determined that he was somehow shy about her seeing him, so she was hoping that a scarf she was sure to recognize might get worn in public where she might spot it. Reaching for another ball of yarn from her basket, she tied in the next color. Yellow would work as a background to make the dog stand out, but if she wanted him to actually wear it she was going to have to include a lot of black.

The messenger program chimed again seconds after Sandor rolled into the next stretch of music.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** You all packed to head home tomorrow?

**sanstark@whc.edu:** No, I’m going to be one of those lame people sticking around that you seem so upset with. I promise I’m actually a good driver, though.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** I thought you said you had a great big family or some shit.

Sansa winced. She did miss her family, but she wasn’t ready for what seeing them again would mean. They hadn’t spoken in well over a year--not since she’d refused to come home from King’s Landing. Even though she’d realized what a mistake that had been and made her way back to the North, there was still something holding her back. The Starks had always had expectations for their oldest daughter, and Sansa wasn’t ready to have the weight of them dumped on top of her all over again. Especially not now that she was starting to become sure of herself without anyone’s interference. Taking a deep breath, she decided to avoid giving an explanation all together.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** It’s complicated. Better if I just stay here.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** Got a lot of big plans over the holidays since there won’t be so many people around campus? Or are you traveling?

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Got nowhere to go even if I wanted to leave. Besides, can’t leave my remaining listeners in the dark.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** You’ll be doing the show all through the holidays?

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Even on Christmas Eve. No rerun or automated bullshit for me.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** I like this place at Christmas, though. Peaceful and all that shit.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** It did seem rather peaceful this evening.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Did?

**sanstark@whc.edu:** Yes. Then some angry DJ started playing all these screaming versions of carols. I can barely hear myself think. :p

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** LOL. Months of listening to my show and now you’re going to complain?

**sanstark@whc.edu:** You don’t always play that screamo crap. 

They spent the next couple of hours with good natured bickering. Sandor insisted that all of his carols were lovely, and he played progressively more scream-filled ones as the night wore on. Sansa worked on his scarf and insistently suggested alternative versions of the songs he chose. As the show began to draw to a close, she began to suggest Wizard Rock songs just to irritate him.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** At this rate, you’re going to run out of carols before Christmas, you know.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** You underestimate my collections of angry music.

Before Sansa could reply, a warning notification that Sandor was typing again popped up. She waited patiently, expecting him to list off artists whose songs he hadn’t gotten to yet. What she got was something entirely different.

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Since you’re sticking around, what are you doing on Christmas Eve?

**sanstark@whc.edu:** Probably binge watching holiday cartoons from my childhood and eating an entire pie by myself. What about you?

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Would you maybe want to co-host the show with me that night? I’ll even let you play some of your damned Harry Potter nonsense.

Alone in her tiny apartment, Sansa turned the color of a tomato. She could feel her cheeks burning as her heart threatened to thunder out of her chest. Here she was plotting just to get a glimpse of him and he’d invited her to spend Christmas with him. At night. Alone in the studio. Her palms started to sweat as her mind filled with entirely different ideas of what their first meeting might be like. He did have such a lovely voice. Before she could find a way to talk herself out of it, Sansa typed out her response.

**sanstark@whc.edu:** Only if you tell me what your favorite pie is. I’ll make one for each of us.

The last song of the most recent music break ended and, for the first time since Sansa had started listening to Sandor’s show, there was dead air. There were no warning notifications on the messenger program. The silence stretched on. Just as Sansa began to worry that he might not have meant for her to accept, Sandor cleared his throat and came back on the air.

“Sorry about that. Got some news that threw me for a second. Time to wrap up for the night. You little bitches try not to kill each other in the scramble to get the hell out of here tomorrow. If one of you hits my truck again like you did last year I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” He cleared his throat again, sounding markedly less sure of himself than usual. “Since she’s just agreed to join me on air for the Christmas Eve show, this last song goes out to the little bird. This is some Wizard Rock crap called ‘All I Want for Christmas’ by Draco and the Malfoys. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

**TheHound@RockWHC.org:** Not one word about the fucking song. Gotta get home to my dog. Talk to you tomorrow, little bird. Looking forward to Christmas. I like pecan.

With her cheeks still rosy, Sansa double her attention to the scarf. If she hurried, she could finish it by the next afternoon. She had a great recipe for butter pecan cookies that she could whip up to deliver with it. There were still a couple of weeks until Christmas, and she was  _ not _ going to give him the chance to back out of spending it with her.


End file.
